


Tomorrow

by KHansen



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst with a Happy Ending, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Gratuitous use of victorian slang, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Minor Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Non-Explicit Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Religious Discussion, Secret Relationship, no beta we die like stregobor fucking should have in this fic, signs point to no, will i ever not make stregobor my villain?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:09:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27916537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KHansen/pseuds/KHansen
Summary: He skids to a stop in front of a broken door, light streaming out from the home behind it and lighting the cobblestone in shattered fractals. Glass crunches underfoot as he carefully steps through the split wood, watching his steps to avoid falling onto the shards that glitter dangerously in the candlelight. In his peripheral, he sees the corpses of several men strewn across the floor.A metallic click stops him in his tracks.He looks up to see the barrel of a pistol aimed at his chest from across the room, the tip wavering slightly in the tight grip. He raises his hands as his heart continues to race and his face feels cold with the blood draining away from it. “Jaskier…”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 15
Kudos: 91
Collections: The Witcher Quick Fic #01





	Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> Was this fic 6,992 words so I added eight words randomly to get it to exactly 7k? Yes.

**23:41, December 3rd, 1887**

His footsteps fly across the cobblestone with a rapid drumming that echoes off the brick lining the street, glowing rings of light cast upon the ground by the gas lamps that run along the sidewalks. Windows are shuttered tight, curtains drawn and sashes closed to protect against the bitter cold that turns his heaving breaths into clouds of mist that puff out from chapped lips. Sweat drips down his temple, his heavy coat flapping behind him, and his hair flies wild and free around his face as his hat was forgotten long ago.

He slips across a patch of ice, invisible in the darkness, and nearly loses his footing-- arms pinwheeling and eyes wide as his heart thuds in his throat-- but makes it across with the toes of his boots scraping against stone once more. He takes a half second to regain his balance before he’s off again like a shot. A corner here. A bridge there. A shadow in the muted moonlight as snow falls gently around him. 

He skids to a stop in front of a broken door, light streaming out from the home behind it and lighting the cobblestone in shattered fractals. Glass crunches underfoot as he carefully steps through the split wood, watching his steps to avoid falling onto the shards that glitter dangerously in the candlelight. In his peripheral, he sees the corpses of several men strewn across the floor. 

A metallic click stops him in his tracks.

He looks up to see the barrel of a pistol aimed at his chest from across the room, the tip wavering slightly in the tight grip. He raises his hands as his heart continues to race and his face feels cold with the blood draining away from it. “Jaskier…”

“Don’t you ‘Jaskier’ me,” the man holding the gun snaps. His chestnut locks are mussed and wild, blood at his temple and dripping down his face into the high collar of his shirt. His crimson waistcoat is torn and missing several buttons but he stands tall, other arm extended behind him to hold back–

_ “Ciri,” _ Geralt sighs in relief, seeing her small blonde head peeking out from behind Jaskier. Jaskier’s face twists from caution to fury, his finger twitching where it rests beside the trigger.

“Geralt, what the  _ hell _ is going on?”

**12:31 - December 1st, 1887  
** **Two Days Earlier**

The chatter of the market is loud and boisterous: from the hawking of merchants and conversation of customers to the rattling of buggies and honking of automobiles, there isn’t a moment of silence. Seeds and spices are piled high, baskets full of goods perched upon hips and the bustling of skirts and coats brushing against one another. Geralt steps off of the sidewalk, directly into a puddle of mud, and pulls a face.

He hates going to the market. It’s noisy and smelly and just a general  _ nuisance _ for him as he towers above the other people on the street, his hat standing a good head higher. He’s not alone in his vertical struggle, at least, as Jaskier continues to chatter at his side and able to see where they’re going by peering over the sea of black tophats and flat brimmed caps, coiffed curls and plaited updos. 

“Come along now, Ciri, we ought to get to the tailor before lunch lest we miss your fitting,” Jaskier remarks to the girl at his elbow, her hand holding his. Her pale blonde hair is swept back in a simple braid that runs down her back and a blue winter coat covers her dress and goes down to the thick stockings covering her knobbly knees.

“Jaskier, why do I have to have a fitting anyhow? Aren’t any of my other dresses good enough?” 

“Your other dresses are beautiful, Cirilla, but for the yule feast you need a new one. As per your grandmother’s orders.”

“Hmm,” Geralt grumbles as he steps back onto the sidewalk, deep scowl set on his face as he glowers at the cobblestones beneath their feet. Jaskier casts him a fondly annoyed glance as he rolls his blue eyes.

“Yes, I’m well aware of your predisposition on this matter, Geralt. But as Ciri’s brother you surely understand the importance of this task and, might I remind you,  _ you _ chose to come with us.”

Geralt’s scowl deepens even as he shakes his head, “I’m here for–”

“Protection, yes I know,” Jaskier laughs and Ciri grins up at him. “What we’re being protected from is a mystery to me, we’ve gone to market hundreds of times before, Geralt.” Jaskier has been Ciri’s governor for two years now, a bit of an odd situation– as male governesses are uncommon– but when you’re offered a position by an extremely wealthy woman such as Calanthe, you’d be loathe to decline.

Geralt hums vaguely, tugging the brim of his hat down further over his face so it’s stood at a jaunty angle and Jaskier snickers in response before turning and guiding Ciri into the tailor’s shop. The bell over the door rings as they enter and Geralt hovers outside, glaring at anyone who walks past, as Jaskier and Ciri go up to the counter to inquire after the garment in question.

Geralt glances behind him, through the glass inlaid in the shop door and watches the backs of Ciri’s blue coat and Jaskier’s red one for a moment. He then turns his attention back to the street and the pedestrians on it, light hazel eyes watching the rumbling automobiles and bouncing buggies, flickering from face to face of the crowd that passes him by. For all his surveillance, he still doesn’t see the fist that flies at his temple.

Then everything goes dark.

**22:07 - September 30th, 1887  
** **Two months earlier**

The breath they share is hot and humid between them, lips parting just long enough to gasp or moan softly into the night as heated touches slip beneath layers of clothes, shedding them one garment at a time until both are bare to none but each other and the silent vigil of the gods. A keening sigh whispers on starlight across high cheeks as Jaskier’s head tips back, pale neck flushed with desire and fluttering with his racing pulse. Geralt’s lips press against the delicate skin, teeth nipping at the adam’s apple that bobs in time with the creaking of the bed as punched out gasps are muffled against a crown of pale blond strands.

They share a passionate kiss, fast hiccuping breaths panting against one another as fingers grip at sweat stained skin and nails scratch over moonlit shoulders. Blue eyes glitter reverently, framed by a curtain of long blond hair before fluttering shut as a broken groan slips past chapped pink lips and long fingers slip down to firm biceps to grab with the desperation of a starving man at the porcelain skin. Geralt’s head drops down to rest against chestnut hair as he stutters to a halt, strong fingers bruising in their grip.

“What a performance,” Jaskier breathes teasingly, running his fingers through loose blond hair and Geralt shudders as he scratches at Geralt’s scalp.

“Being cheeky, are we?”

“Do I have any other choice?”

Geralt chuckles as he settles himself comfortably on top of the thinner man, Jaskier sighing happily as Geralt’s warm weight settles over him and pressing small butterfly kisses to Geralt’s head and ear. Geralt rumbles a content groan, inhaling the familiar scent of sweat and the perfume Jaskier wears in proper company. The moon is high in the sky so he uses his foot to lazily kick the sheets high enough to grab and haul them up to their waists, Jaskier’s fingers stroking slowly through Geralt’s long hair.

“Why are we hiding this from my grandmother again?” Geralt breaks the silence after a while, his voice soft and muffled against the soft skin of Jaskier’s purpling neck, “I want to be able to kiss you whenever I want.”

Jaskier’s breath stutters as he thinks, pressing his lips together as his face becomes pinched, “I could lose my job, Geralt.”

“I can support you, I have enough money.”

“I know you can,” Jaskier sighs softly, “I know you do. But I like having a position here, I enjoy tutoring and caring for Ciri– even if your grandmother is the most frightening woman I know.”

Geralt frowns, sitting up on his forearms to look down at his lover, “But you wouldn’t have to keep working for her. We’ll take Ciri with us, get away for a while.”

“Go to the coast?”

“If you’d like.”

Jaskier exhales softly, tenderly tucking Geralt’s hair behind his ear, “That sounds nice, but... it’s just a fantasy, Geralt. I need to stay here,  _ Ciri _ needs to stay here. I know your relationship with Calanthe is… complicated, but she loves your grandmother–”

Geralt’s expression hardens, “More than she loves me?”

“No, I didn’t say that–”

“But it’s what you were thinking.”

“Dammit, Geralt!” Jaskier huffs an irritated breath before closing his eyes to inhale deeply and calm down.

Geralt scowls as he pushes up off of Jaskier, getting to his feet and searching for his underwear on the shadowed floor. Jaskier sits up as well, looking vaguely annoyed while also concerned as he watches Geralt move around in the dark, moonlit skin glowing faintly in the beams from the open window.

“Geralt, what are you doing?”

“Removing myself. Since Ciri loves Calanthe more than me, it isn’t much of a stretch that you would, too.”

Jaskier gapes, a hurt expression settling upon his downturned lips, “Well that’s not fair…”

“Isn’t it?” Geralt sneers, “You clearly prefer to stay in her house rather than live with me elsewhere–”

“I’ve  _ told _ you, Geralt. It’s about my job, not any love I have for Calanthe–”

“–so I’d imagine the love you have for me is less preferable as well.”

“Geralt!” Jaskier’s voice is loud in the silent dark and he slaps his hand over his mouth, eyes darting to the shut bedroom doors as his exclamation echoes off the walls. “Geralt, you can’t truly believe that.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” He demands, pulling his shirt on and buttoning it haphazardly, “What proof can you give me that that isn’t the truth?”

“I’m here, aren’t I? I don’t warm Calanthe’s bed–”

“Not for lack of trying,” Geralt states coldly and Jaskier goes silent. He risks a glance up to see teary blue eyes and a stony expression as Jaskier watches him. “What? Am I wrong?”

“Get out.”

“Oh, now that I’ve hurt your feelings you want me gone but when you were wounding me it was ‘where are you going, Geralt’?”

Jaskier gets up suddenly, planting both hands on Geralt’s chest and shoving him away as he trembles with hurt rage. “Get. OUT!” He shouts, uncaring of how loud he is in the quiet house, “get the  _ fuck _ out, Geralt!”

Geralt’s eyes widen incrementally, not having expected Jaskier to yell like this and risk his position in the household, but he scowls and grabs his jacket and throws it over his shoulder as he grabs his boots, “gladly.”

“Fuck you,” Jaskier’s voice breaks as Geralt yanks open the door, stepping into the narrow hall of the servants’ quarters. The slam of it rattles the sconces on the walls and rings with a finality he didn’t anticipate, heart sinking with each footstep away from Jaskier’s room.

**10:39 - July 17th, 1885  
** **Two years earlier**

Geralt grins as he runs through the streets of Cintra, hood pulled up over his head to conceal his blond hair and dark oil paint smeared over his eyes and cheeks. Eskel runs at his side, Lambert a few feet ahead of them with Aiden following on light feet high atop the sloped roofs of the factories that line the alley they dart through. Dirt sullies their cheeks and darkens their skin, makes limp Eskel’s long hair and colors Lambert’s shorn locks. Their feet are bare while Geralt wears his most worn shoes, his cloak faded and torn in places to match the thin garments of his friends.

“Up there!” Aiden calls down from the rooftops, jumping across to the sill of a window and shimmying down a drain pipe to land beside Lambert, “I’d bet my hat that’s a katterzem. In the red coat.”

“Looks fat enough to be one,” Lambert agrees even as Eskel rolls his eyes, the four of them slowing to a stop.

“Aiden, you haven’t got a hat to bet with,” Eskel teases and Aiden makes a rude gesture at him.

Geralt shoves them aside to peer out of the alley, getting indignant outcries to “mind the grease!” as he does so. With a start, he recognizes the cut of the target’s suit.

“We shouldn’t go after this one, lads,” Geralt shakes his head, stepping back again, “I’d know that door-knocker anywhere. That’s Irion Stregobor.”

“The inventor?” Lambert’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline and Aiden smacks him upside the head.

“Shut your gob or he’ll hear you, you knob!”

“Yes, the inventor,” Geralt glances around the corner again.

Eskel drums his fingers on his cheek thoughtfully, “Then oughtn’t he have more coin? Being a successful businessman like.”

“I’d rightly say so,” Aiden agrees, starting forward. Geralt grabs his arm and hauls him back. Even though they’re similar in height, Aiden is much skinnier and lither, easy for Geralt to manhandle. “Are you fishy about the gills, Geralt? What’s the problem?”

“You’re not seriously going to fake a poke at  _ Stregobor, _ are you?” Geralt hisses, his grip tightening on Aiden’s brown arm. Aiden winces and Lambert scowls, grabbing Geralt’s wrist and ripping his hand away.

“Leave him alone, Geralt. Just because you’re yellow-bellied doesn’t mean we are. You think we don’t know you’re sitting pretty?” 

Geralt frowns, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Geralt, you wear the finest clothes of all us,” Aiden points out, now standing behind Lambert where he was shoved. “We’re not thick.”

“Debatable,” Eskel murmurs and Lambert sneers at him.

“Fuck you, Eskel, you’re just on his side because you take his cock.”

Eskel’s dirty cheeks turn pink as he scowls as well now, tensions rising, “I do not.”

“You do too! I bet you take it like a fucking flapper, don’t you? Filly and foal, the two of yous.”

“Shut the fuck up, Lambert,” Geralt growls, stepping forward threateningly.

“Or what? You gonna bust me like you did those Blaviken kids?” Lambert snarls and Aiden tries to pull him back with a firm hand:

_ “Lambert.” _

“You know I’m right, Aiden! He’s a fucking tosser who likes to pretend he’s a fucking rat like the rest of us even as he goes home to his down and gran.” 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Geralt growls, hands balling into fists at his sides.

“Don’t I?” Lambert glares, crossing his arms defiantly, “I followed you home once. Never trusted you a second and I was right not to. You got back and you cleaned that paint off your face and straightened your pretty little suit and ran back to grandmummy’s tit.”

“Shut up!” Geralt launches himself at Lambert, knocking the shorter boy to the ground. He can feel Lambert’s bones through his clothes as he grabs the collar of Lambert’s shirt in his hand, drawing his fist back. He freezes before he can do anything damaging, though, eyes widening as he lets his hand fall to his side.

“Come on, you fucking fish, hit me!” Lambert challenges.

Aiden shoves Geralt off of him and hauls Lambert to his feet, “Lambert, leave him alone. Let’s just pick the inventor and go.”

“I’d bet he doesn’t want us to nick nothing just because the inventor is his tosser gov’nor.”

“Lambert! Shut  _ up!” _ Aiden shoves him out of the alley, “Let’s go!”

Eskel helps Geralt to his feet, avoiding his hazel eyes as he watches Lambert and Aiden melt into the crowd to try and find Stregobor again. Geralt frowns and glances at the stream of bodies before turning back to Eskel, “You don’t believe them, do you?”

“I… they’ve got a point, Ger,” Eskel rubs the scars that rake down his cheek, “you do wear fancy clothes. I don’t see why you’d spin tales about it though.”

Geralt’s jaw clenches, “What, so you’d have let me run with you if you knew I was tossed?”

“That’s not what I said, Geralt.”

“You’re not denying it.”

“I don’t know!” He tosses his hands up as he shakes his head, “I wouldn’t know, Geralt. We never got to think of it since you  _ lied.  _ And not even good!”

“I had you blind for three years! We met when we were fifteen!”

“Geralt, you even  _ talk _ poncy,” Eskel sighs, scrubbing his hands over his face, “Listen, man, you’re my chuckaboo but we were just waiting for you to spill the beans and you never did. You kept lying, and that kinda makes you a Dennis.”

“I’m a Dennis now, am I?” Geralt shakes his head with a scoff, “Well, if I’m so reproachable to you I oughta–”

Eskel never finds out what Geralt ought to do, as just then there’s the shrill tweeting of a police whistle as Lambert and Aiden rush past them again.

“Mind the grease!” Lambert shouts as Aiden yells: “Get dancing, boys! We got a half baker’s bobbies on our tail!”

“What?” Eskel looks around to see three police heading for the entrance of the alley, “oh, shit!”

Geralt curses and they turn on their heels, sprinting away from the policemen and darting out of the alley, splitting up with Eskel by turning right while his friend turns left and darting down the street as lorries light the gas lamps in the fading daylight. Geralt shoves past people, already a good half head taller than most and bulkier to boot, raising a ruckus in his wake as he tries to keep his hood over his head. So focused is he on his escape that he runs straight into somebody, grunting as they both tumble to the ground.

“Oh! Are you alright?” The man Geralt finds himself laying on top of asks. Geralt lifts his head and finds himself looking into the bluest pair of eyes he’s ever seen, mesmerizing him into stunned silence until he’s suddenly hauled back by the hood of his cloak, choking slightly.

“There you are, you little rat,” Stregobor sneers, “let’s find out who decided it was smart to steal from me, hm?”

Blue Eyes looks alarmed and scrambles to his feet, thinking for a fraction of a second before moving forward with a large, welcoming gesture, “Master Stregobor! What a  _ delight _ it is to see you again, sir. How’s the joint? I haven’t heard from Madam Tissaia in some time.” His hand knocks Stregobor’s off of Geralt’s cloak as Blue Eyes moves between them with a large smile and his hands on his hips.

“I– bah! Move out of the way, you catafalque!” Stregobor tries to shove Blue Eyes aside; but, after a quick glance of thanks, Geralt had already dashed away. “Quit killing the canary, boy, be on your way! And you!” Stregobor shouts after Geralt, “when I find out who you are, you’re going to be sorry, rat!”

Geralt doesn’t stop running until he makes it home again, having taken the long way around by winding through the long streets of Cintra, ducking into alleys and doubling back on his path to retrace his footsteps. Only once he’s sure he’s not being followed does he go back to the manor in the city center, cleaning his face of the grease paint and stashing his old cloak and boots in the carriage house where a shiny new automobile has just replaced their horses and carriage, the equines moved to their home in the country.

“Where have you been?” Vesemir asks sharply the moment Geralt steps inside. Their butler looks frazzled with a single hair out of place, which is as good as saying the world is ending. “Your grandmother is furious that you’ve just run off again. Don’t tell me you were with those street urchins again?”

“They’re my friends, Ves,” Geralt argues and Vesemir sighs as he brushes the dirt off of Geralt’s suit jacket and knees, arranging pale blond locks into a semblance of propriety.

“Friends or not, you were supposed to be home at half four for tea. Your grandmother’s hired Cirilla a new tutor.”

“Another one? She just hasn’t run enough of them off? I’ve told her before, she needs someone with a firmer hand than the women she’s been hiring.”

“Well,” Vesemir judges Geralt good enough for tea and ushers him forward, “It seems she’s taken your suggestion into account.”

Geralt frowns in confusion as Vesemir stops them in front of the salon, “What does that mean?”

Vesemir doesn’t answer, just opening the door to the salon and stepping aside to allow Geralt entry, “Your grandson, madam.”

“It’s about time,” Calanthe grumbles, waving Geralt over to the tea table, “Julian, this is my grandson and Ciri’s older brother, Geralt. I believe you two are the same age?”

Geralt straightens his gloves as he approaches, schooling his face into a look of casual disinterest even as he spies Ciri bouncing excitedly on the fainting couch. Whoever it is won’t be sticking around for long, none of Ciri’s governesses ever do. Although, did Calanthe say  _ Julian? _

Geralt looks to the man sitting in the chair next to Calanthe’s, a polite smile on his face even as his blue eyes betray his surprise. Geralt blinks in shock of his own, extending a hand to Blue Eyes– Julian. “A pleasure.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Julian’s lips twitch at a hint of a larger smile, an echo of the grandiose expression he wore when rescuing Geralt from Stregobor, “And please. Call me Jaskier.”

**02:31 - October 1st, 1887  
** **Two months earlier**

The streets are cool with the brisk breeze of autumn, a sharpness to the air that threatens an early winter in Cintra. Geralt has his hands tucked deep into his pockets, hat pulled low over his face and collar turned up against the wind as he wanders, thoughts still turning over the fight he had with Jaskier only hours before, analyzing each venomous word and angry syllable. His chest tightens each time he remembers the look of unmitigated hurt that had settled into blue eyes even as Jaskier’s face turned to impassive tone.

He should apologize. He said some truly awful things to Jaskier, and for what? To get vindictive pleasure from hurting the man he loves? He understands Jaskier’s need for independence, he truly does, so why does he continue to push Jaskier to be relieved of it and depend on Geralt instead? Is it a desire to be wanted? To be needed?

These queries and more plague Geralt as he walks around the shadowed streets of Cintra, glancing up only when he hears the rumbling of an automobile or the rattling of a lone buggy, eyes automatically drawn to the unusual disturbance of the cold peace. His breath faintly puffs in front of his face and he thanks his lucky stars that he doesn’t require spectacles– he’s seen what happens to Jaskier’s reading specs in the cold when he’s bundled up properly– as he buries his stinging nose in the high collar of his coat.

As he’s passing between an unlit gas lamp and a darkened alley, a hand shoots out and grabs his arm. Geralt’s hauled into the darkness and shoved against the soot stained brick with a grunt. Something cold is pressed below his jaw, the sharp edge digging into his neck, as hands start to dig in his pockets.

“I don’t have any money,” he growls through grit teeth, even as the hands find his purse and remove it from his coat. 

“What’s this then, huh?” The assailant not threatening him asks. The man has an oddly familiar voice, higher pitched than one might expect of his short and stocky build, but shadows keep his face hidden from Geralt.

“I didn’t put any bills in there, there might be a few coin. You’re welcome to it if you’ll just let me go,” he tries to keep his voice even as annoyance and anger rush through him. The thief opens the purse as the latch opens with a dull  _ click. _ The thief turns the purse over and shakes out whatever coppers and ducats Geralt had, along with a small, folded piece of paper. He carefully doesn’t allow himself to react, even as his heart races and he swallows thickly, eyes trained on the page.

“What is that?” The man holding the knife to Geralt’s throat asks curiously. He also has a familiar voice, deep and fluid in its cadence. Not dissimilar to Jaskier’s own tenor, but pitched a bit lower.

The thief holding the small paper opens it up, tilting it to the moonlight and snickering, “Well ain’t you a gal-sneaker, ponce. Or should I say lad-sneaker? Don’t you know the kind of trouble you can get in with something like this in a place like that?” He waves the black and white photograph in front of Geralt’s nose.

“Put that back. Please.” He grits out, glaring at where he hopes the thief’s eyes are in his shadowed face.

“I always knew you were a mollie, Geralt, but damn if seeing the evidence don’t feel good. I called it though, said you were letting Eskel suck your cock and turns out I was right, wasn’t I?”

Geralt blinks, immediately placing the voice and frowning,  _ “Lambert?” _

“The one and only,” Lambert boasts, tilting the photograph this way and that to peer at it better in the darkness. He lets out a low whistle in appreciation, “you got yourself quite the lark here, pretty boy.”

“What do you want, Lambert?”

“Well, we were hired to rough you up a bit, warn you against fucking with Stregobor, the usual shit.”

“And we figured, what better way to catch up with an old friend than threatening your life?” Aiden– for Geralt recognizes his voice now– chirps pleasantly, “How have you been, Geralt?”

“I’d be better without the knife at my throat,” he remarks dryly and Aiden laughs, the knife wiggling with the motion.

“Too funny! Unfortunately, the knife needs to stay where it is. I’m sure you understand, it’s nothing personal.”

“It’s just business?” 

Lambert clicks his tongue, “Exactly. Say, what color are your lad’s eyes? Blck and white, you know, not very conducive to eye color.”

“Why do you want to know?” Geralt demands, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

Aiden shrugs, “Call it curiosity.”

“And if I fail to indulge your curiosity?”

“Your sister has such pretty fingers,” Lambert drawls, “I’d hate if anything happened to them.”

“You fucking bastard,” Geralt spits, “You’d hurt a child?”

_ “I _ wouldn’t, of course not. But I can’t say the same of the other men Stregobor contracts.”

“So you sold me out.”

“We sold  _ you _ out?” Lambert bristles, stalking forward a few steps, “You sold us out! How else would he have found me and Aiden? You were the last one to know where we were!”

“I have never spoken to Stregobor outside of general societal conventions overseen by my grandmother,” Geralt shakes his head, “Could Eskel have–?”

“He’s gone,” Lambert states bluntly, “Packed up and shipped off to the New World last year.”

“That’s where we’re going, too,” Aiden says softly, “If you want to take your lark and get out of Cintra. It’s safer there.”

“Safer for who? Thieves and vagabonds?” 

“Ouch, Geralt! You wound me,” Lambert places his hand dramatically over his heart, “I think, just for that, I’m gonna hang on to this little token.” He folds the photograph and slips it into his pocket, “Forgive me if I don’t believe you in saying you didn’t sell us out. After all, you tend to spin tales.”

“Lambert…”

“The eye color, Geralt,” Aiden reminds quietly, “Please. We don’t want to be doing this either.”

Lambert scoffs, “Speak for yourself, A. I’m enjoying this immensely.”

Geralt closes his eyes and inhales deeply, letting his breath out in a slow exhale between parted lips. “Blue,” he whispers, “he has blue eyes.”

“Now, was that so hard?” Lambert simpers as he pulls the photograph out again, “On second thought, he’s not really my type. Let’s go, Aiden.” With that, he drops the photo to the ground, the paper landing in a damp puddle of water, and crushes it under foot as he walks to the entrance of the alley. Aiden pulls the knife away and skips forward to be at Lambert’s side.

“Lambert, wait!” Geralt calls out, staggering forward a step. A cold sweat has broken out across his brow and his hands are clammy as his heart thunders against his breast. “You can’t tell anyone. Please. I can’t do that to him.”

Lambert pauses, his back stiff and unyielding as he stands tense. It’s in a voice dogged with fatigue that he carefully says, “I won’t tell anyone anything they don’t already know, Geralt.”

Geralt’s words are little more than a hoarse croak as he desperately steps forward, “What does he already know?” 

“Everything.”

Lambert doesn’t say anything else, just grabbing Aiden’s elbow and steering him out of the alley down the street. Geralt clenches his jaw as he watches them go, his eyes dropping to the damaged photograph on the cobblestone. He stoops down and picks it up, carefully drying the paper as best he can with the sleeve of his coat, smoothing it flat again.

Jaskier looks back at him, his face passive and angelic with the halo of large buttercups resting upon the crown of his dark hair. His large eyes are a mixture of cheeky and stern with the set of his jaw and somber expression. Geralt gently folds the photograph and tucks it back into his pocket, Lambert having taken the purse with him. He needs to talk to Jaskier.

**17:22 - December 1st, 1887  
** **Two days earlier**

“Rise and shine, princess!”

Geralt gasps awake as he’s doused in frigid water, spluttering as some passes through his lips and slips down his throat. It tastes of the sea, and with the gentle rushing of the ocean somewhere nearby he can conclude that he’s at the dock houses. Geralt is bound to a chair, ropes tight around his ankles and wrists and– just for good measure, he supposes– his torso. 

His wet hair hangs limp in his face as he looks around the lantern lit warehouse, flames flickering with the sea breeze that wriggles its way through miniscule cracks in the boards to whisper across the dusty floor and lift tiny devils into the air. The crates in this particular dock house are covered with heavy tarps and lashed down with more rope, not too different to himself. Standing before him is a man who smells positively rancid, red hair matted with filth and his skin so dirty it’s impossible to tell freckles from the grime on his pale face.

Out of the shadows steps Stregobor, hair carefully coiffed and topped with a tall stovepipe, beard shaved on the chin and jaw, leaving a ring of gray whiskers across his lip and stretching down to the underside of his chin. His steel eyes glitter in the firelight, arms clasped behind him sternly. “I told you I would find you,” his voice is as cold as an iceberg as he glares icily down at Geralt, “didn’t I?”

Geralt swallows, testing how dry his throat is, and then licks his chapped lips, “I don’t recall. Enlighten me, would you?”

Stregobor’s face twists briefly into something harsh and ugly before smoothing out again into passive anger, “I don’t think that’s quite necessary. Now, I did say I’d make you sorry for your thievery so I think you ought to know that I have men searching the city as we speak.”

Geralt’s blood runs cold as he blinks, struggling to keep his expression static, “Searching for what?” He hopes his voice doesn’t sound as desperate as he thinks it does, but based on the smug curl that jumps to Stregobor’s lips he’s not as successful as he wished.

“Why, the newest trophies to add to my collection of course,” he walks over to a covered crate, lifting a thin wooden box and bringing it to show Geralt. The lid is made of glass and through that he can see a good dozen sets of eyeballs contained in small jars that clink and clank as they roll against one another, the fluid within them bubbling with the motion. Geralt feels bile rising in his throat as he spies two empty jars at the bottom of the display. “I think a couple nice sets of blue and green would really round it out, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” Geralt croaks, eyes glued to the empty jars in the macabre display, “I’m going to get out of these bindings and fucking kill you.”

Stregobor barks a laugh as he tucks his box under his arm, stepping away and turning his back to Geralt without reservation. He knows the man isn’t a threat to him with the ropes as tight as they are, and that’s more of an insult to Geralt than if Stregobor had called him a mutant freak and spat at his feet. “You’re welcome to try, you’ll have plenty of time to yourself, Geralt. I’ll see you once I have those eyes so you can reap what you’ve sown.”

“They haven’t done anything to you, leave them out of this!” Geralt shouts as Stregobor leaves with his lackey throwing a sneer over his greasy shoulder. “Stregobor!”

The door to the dock house closes with a bang and a heavy thunk as it locks.

Geralt sighs into the darkness as he settles back into his chair, thinking about the tickets locked in a desk drawer with their names on them, waiting for Jaskier, Ciri, and himself to gain passage to their freedom. He just has to hope that Jaskier has realized something is wrong and gets Ciri away in time. With a determined huff, Geralt curls his fingers under his hand to reach into his sleeve as far as he can. He needs to get out of here.

**23:45 - December 3rd, 1887  
** **Now**

The gun is still trained on his torso, even as the muzzle wavers– with emotion, adrenaline, or fatigue, Geralt’s not quite sure– and Jaskier’s breaths come in little heaving pants. His knuckles are white where he grips the firearm, other hand clutching Ciri’s smaller one as she peers around him at Geralt curiously.

“What happened here?” Geralt rasps. He hasn’t had any water in two days and he’s parched enough to drain the sea.

“Why don’t you tell us?” Jaskier’s voice is strong, even as it trembles just the slightest bit, and Geralt feels immense pride in his love. “They told us you sent them.”

Geralt inhales sharply, taking a jerking step forward, “No, Jaskier, you can’t–” 

Jaskier shoves Ciri back as they step away from him. It hurts more than it has any right to.

“I can’t  _ what, _ Geralt?” Jaskier demands, “All I know is that you disappeared while we were at the market and the next thing I knew Calanthe was  _ dead _ and I had to run with Ciri.” Geralt flinches. He didn’t know his grandmother was a target.

“Jaskier, love, you have to believe me. Stregobor had me kidnapped, I’ve been trying to escape his clutches for two days now. I’ve the burns to prove it,” Geralt pleads, yanking the sleeves of his coat and shirt up to reveal the oozing and inflamed welts on his wrists. Jaskier stares at them, frightened eyes flickering between Geralt’s face and the evidence of his abuse. 

He starts shivering, gently at first and then so violently the gun drops to the floor with a loud clatter and Geralt rushes over. He wraps Jaskier and Ciri up in his arms, holding them tightly as Jaskier shakes apart with gasping sobs. Ciri clutches tightly to them both, silent tears of her own dripping down her cheeks as she buries her face into Geralt’s chest. 

“We thought you were gone!” Ciri cries, hiccuping in the middle, “You just were gone! We thought you were dead! And then– and then–”

“Shh,” Geralt shushes her, shushes  _ them, _ running his fingers through her hair as he presses his lips to Jaskier’s shoulder, “You’re alright, I’m right here. Jaskier kept you safe and I’m here now, I got away.”

“H-how did you get away?” Ciri asks tearily.

Geralt reaches into his sleeve, pulling out a thin wire, “Never go anywhere without steel lute strings.”

Jaskier laughs wetly against Geralt’s shoulder, arms tightening around Geralt’s torso. Ciri giggles softly as well, hiding her face in his coat once more. Geralt’s not blind, he can see the blood covering Jaskier and the scratches on Ciri’s arms and the bruises forming around her neck, and if he weren’t so desperate to get them somewhere safe he’d hunt down every last one of those fuckers and dispose of them in the most painful way he can imagine. As it is, he’s needed here.

He’s home.

**11:09 - December 5th, 1887  
** **Two days later**

The sea spray is freezing as it kisses rosy cheeks and salt crusted hair, a scarf wound around his neck and chin as he stands at the railing of the ship. He’s watching the stars overhead, the way they never turn so that his eyes can perceive the motion of the earth, but aware of how they change with the seasons; all except for the North star, their guiding light in the darkness. He takes in a deep, burning breath through his nose and exhales through his mouth, warming the sweater even as it crackles and melts some of the ice built up upon it. 

Footsteps thump across the deck to his side, dark coat masking the wearer almost perfectly with the night if it weren’t for the moonlight gleaming off of pale blond hair. Jaskier sighs and leans over, bumping Geralt’s shoulder with his own; a declaration of love, a display of friendship.

“Stars are pretty tonight,” Geralt grunts out, arms crossed tightly to protect against the frozen wind that fills their sails. Jaskier casts his eyes skyward as he hums in agreement, watching the wispy clouds drift across the glittering heavens.

“Do you suppose the gods look down at us and wonder, the same way we do them?” Jaskier asks after a few moments, his voice soft in the gentle night, “that they, too, are just as curious about their creations as we are about our creators?”

“I…” Geralt murmurs, unsure of how to answer, “I don’t know. I don’t suppose I’ve ever thought about it.”

“No, I don’t think it’s something people think of easily. But, I have to wonder…”

“Wonder what?”

“Well, if the gods are able to make someone like Stregobor, why would they? If they truly have the same free will that we do, why would they create a man who wanted us dead when we had no quarrel with him? Why would they make such hardships and difficulties? Are they not benevolent gods who should love us as we love our children?” Jaskier sighs softly, “Or perhaps they’re cruel tricksters, laughing as they watch us drown beneath crashing waves of misfortune. Maybe this was all a joke to them, they are the masters and we are naught but chess pieces in a most unfortunate game.” 

He looks over at Geralt, the breeze blowing his hair softly as his pink tipped nose pokes out from his scarf, “I don’t suppose we’ll ever know, will we? Even upon our deaths, as we depart from this mortal plain and ascend to Valhalla to nestle in the bosom of Melitele, it’s not guaranteed for all we can do is theorize and believe in one afterlife while one of another faith believes in another. There’s no way to know for sure how the gods may toy with us, for we may not even get to meet the gods. And isn’t that a thought? That we spend decades and centuries worshipping something that may not even exist, all in the hopes that something greater than ourselves exists beyond the heavens.”

Geralt feels cold, almost empty, as he’s stripped of his faith with each of Jaskier’s thoughtful words. He’s not sure how to reply, whether he even should or not, when Jaskier continues.

“But maybe that’s all the more reason to have that belief, hm? To have something to trust in that isn’t our own fickle humanity, the comfort of someone watching over us and loving us from on high. The security of having a home to go to when we pass on from the earth and join the departed souls that live joyously in the afterlife, reunited with their families and friends and living their forever in euphoric and harmony. What better to look forward to and ease the fear of dying than a utopia to look forward to?”

“You’ve thought a lot about this, huh?” Geralt asks quietly and Jaskier nods.

“More than I’d like, I’d prefer to spend my time thinking about our future– although, I have been doing that, strictly speaking– but rather in the New World.”

Geralt looks towards the horizon where the stars kiss the water, the horizon just the faintest whisper day gray, “What do you think is out there?” 

Jaskier reaches over to slip his hand beneath Geralt’s, stepping closer and lacing their fingers together as he rests his head upon Geralt’s shoulder. Right here, right now, in the silence of early morning and the dark shroud of night, their secret is kept by the very gods that watch them. Their love sings freely.

“With luck? Our tomorrow.”

**Author's Note:**

> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


End file.
